


Hostage Situation

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: First Kiss, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Hodges doesn't deal well in hostage situations, not when it's him, Bobby Dawson, and a man with a gun, all alone in a room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hostage Situation

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Way to Go."

 

_There’s nothing to lose_  
When no one knows your name  
There’s nothing to gain  
But the days don’t seem to change

_Never played truth or dare_   
_ I’d have to check my mirror_   
_ To see if I’m still here_   
_ My parents had no clue_   
_ That I ate all my lunches_   
_ Alone in the bathroom_

 

* * *

 

"Let me guess, Thompson’s been reorganizing the guns again," David comments, leaning against the glass wall of the ballistics lab and watching Bobby glower at his collection of guns. 

The look Bobby turns on him is so tragic that David instinctively smirks at the other man’s obvious suffering. "The man puts ‘em in _alphabetical_ order," Bobby laments. "Not manufacturer, not even caliber, but in _alphabetical_ order. I spend more time puttin’ the guns in decent order than usin’ ‘em, thanks to him!" 

David’s smirk widens. "See, it’s because of your Southern accent. Your death threats just don’t seem genuine, whereas _mine_ have sufficiently cowed the dayshift trace tech." 

Bobby raises an eyebrow. "So _that’s_ why he keeps leavin’ so much backlog for you?" he remarks, and this time it's the firearms tech who smirks as David scowls. 

"He just can’t do half of the work I can in the time--"

They both pause and turn at the sound of shouting, the words impossible to make out but the tone unmistakably angry. David raises an eyebrow, and Bobby shrugs, and they both go to the door to peer out into the hallway at the scene that’s unfolding. 

A redheaded man is shouting angrily at one of the cops who have been apparently escorting him somewhere. Now that the door is open, the two technicians can make out his furious words. "--don’t want to give you a fucking DNA sample! Kim’s dead, and you expect me to stay here, getting _accused_ of her murder, while her real killer goes off scot-free?" 

"Mr. Rogers," the younger of the cops begins, and David can see the man is struggling not to roll his eyes. "This is standard procedure and--" 

"And I’m not giving you anything!" 

David and Bobby look at each other and shrug before they retreat back into the ballistics lab and David leans against the door and watches Bobby reorganize his guns. Watching Bobby isn’t particularly interesting, but bad timing has put David on his break while everyone else seems to be working, which is why he is now harassing Bobby -- Bobby is the only one who wouldn’t chase him out of the lab (Archie wouldn’t _mean_ to, of course, but if David has to listen to another rant about how William Shatner is a good actor, he’s going to build a time machine and go and kill the star of the original Star Trek before the franchise can get started). 

After a moment filled only by the garbled arguing out in the hallway, David remarks, "I’m telling you, just give me five minutes with Thompson and I’ll have him organizing the guns by manufacturer _and_ caliber for you." 

Bobby pauses, a Colt in his hand, and then shakes his head. "That’s far too temptin’ of an offer, but no thanks. I’ll deal." He turns and sets the gun gently into its ‘proper’ place, like a father placing his child in her crib. 

"The offer’s always open." David smirks at the look Bobby shoots him, and then the smirk shifts to an inquiring look as the half-amused, half-exasperated look slides off his friend’s face and is replaced by an expression of alarm. "What?" 

And then the door is suddenly shoved into his back, and he stumbles forward, muttering a startled curse. "Hey, watch it--" The insult he is about to hurl dies on his lips, however, as the unmistakable feel of a gun barrel presses hard into his spine. Well, shit. This night is certainly turning into a far more exciting one than he’s planned for (or wanted). 

David feels a hot breath on the back of his neck, and then a voice growls, "So many fucking glass walls." The barrel presses harder into David’s back. "Get out here, both of you." It’s only after the growled command that David recognizes the voice as the man -- Rogers -- from the hallway. How the hell has he gotten a _gun_? 

He notices the sidelong look Bobby shoots towards his guns, and knows the firearm technician must be cursing the fact that he’s surrounded by guns but unable to use one. 

And they’ve apparently been hesitating for too long, because Rogers’ arm wraps around David’s throat and hauls him through the doorway and out into the hallway, and then the gun is pressing against his temple rather than his spine. 

The two cops are there, staring with expressions of alarm, and judging by the way that the younger cop is deathly white and his holster is empty, it is his gun that David has pointed at his head. For some reason Sara is there too, gawking in horror. 

David thinks that he should probably be overwhelmed by terror at the moment, but all he feels is an oddly detached interest in the goings-on, as though he is some spectator watching something particularly intriguing. He studies the paleness of Sara’s face and the way her knuckles are white against the yellow folder she’s holding, and suspects she was hunting him down for the latest analysis results, even though he’d told her before his break that it will be another half-hour before the results are ready. 

"Nobody move, or I’ll kill him," Rogers announces, and the detached part of David mentally rolls his eyes. This guy’s seen way too many movies. Doesn’t he know that hostage situations always end badly for the hostage-taker? 

"You know," he hears himself remarking dryly, "stealing a cop’s gun and pointing it at my head doesn’t really do much to convince people you’re an innocent man." The arm around his throat tightens and cuts off any more sarcasm.

David decides to focus on breathing for a moment, and tries to ignore the cold metal that’s biting into his skin and probably leaving a bruise, even as Rogers resumes dragging him, this time in the direction of the garage. Of _course_ his captor would be smart enough to find the only place with solid walls (besides the bathrooms, that is). 

"You’re coming too," Rogers snaps, and the detached part of David is aggrieved to see that the man is looking at Bobby, and _now_ comes the clenching of his gut and the rush of emotions such as dismay as the man stares at Bobby and orders, "Get in there." 

"You…already have a…hostage," David says, the words coming out labored. "Don’t be…greedy." The arm tightens until spots appear in his vision, and he decides that he really _ought_ to shut up. 

"Inside, _now_." 

Although Bobby’s expression is mostly obscured by the black spots in David’s vision, what David can see of it is solemn as Bobby nods and enters the garage. 

Rogers yanks David through the door, and immediately barks out an order for Bobby to barricade the exit (and David hopes the man gets _killed_ during the hostage negotiations, because Rogers is still choking him and he hasn’t made a sarcastic remark in a whole thirty seconds). Once Bobby has set up the makeshift barricade, Rogers releases David, and the trace technician rubs at his throat, taking in a few unsteady breaths and ignoring the gun that is again pressed into his spine. 

There is a long moment of silence, in which David begins to do a mental count (_one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand_) and the black spots in his vision dissipates, and then Rogers says, "I didn’t kill her, you know," and David has to fight every instinct in him not to laugh out loud (he does have _some_ survival skills, no matter what certain people in the LAPD might say). 

Bobby looks a little incredulous at that, but says nothing, just clenches his hands tightly at his side and watches Rogers like the man’s a rattler about to strike. 

"I didn’t. I _loved_ her," Rogers continues, and David bites back the automatic, ‘Idiot, people are cruelest to the ones they love’ that rises to his lips. His throat is still sore and he wouldn’t put it past the man to shoot him and leave Bobby alive as the hostage, and while Bobby wouldn’t say anything to upset the man now, he might do something stupidly heroic should Rogers shoot David. 

In the silence that follows, Bobby startles suddenly, and both the captor and David blink at him as he swallows and says, "Cell phone’s vibratin’. Can I answer it?" 

Rogers hesitates, and then mutters, "Yes -- but no funny business."

As David swallows back another insult, Bobby nods and pulls out the cell, answering it in a low, "This is Bobby." He is quiet for a moment, and says in Rogers and David’s direction, "It’s the negotiator." Then he says into the phone, "Yeah, yeah we are. You wanna talk to Rogers?" 

The gun is finally pointed away from David as the man waves it between him and Bobby. "Hand it over." Once Rogers has the cell phone in his grasp, he begins to pace, keeping his gaze on the two technicians and waving his gun at them every so often, as though they might forget he has a weapon and is willing to use it. 

As Rogers begins arguing with whomever is trying to negotiate their release, Bobby and David share a look. Bobby raises his eyebrows and half-frowns, his version of, _Are you okay?_ and David gives a one-shouldered shrug, a silent, _Let’s just see how this goes._

After a long moment, Rogers mutters, "Fine," into the phone and tosses it back at Bobby, who juggles it briefly before he tucks it back into his pocket. "I’ve decided to let one of you go as a gesture of goodwill," their captor announces, as though it was his idea entirely and not the negotiator’s. He glances between them and frowns, the gun pointing at the space between the two technicians. "Just have to decide who." 

From the corner of his eye, David sees Bobby’s face go pale and set, like he does whenever he’s about to make some sort of grandiose and dangerously heartfelt gesture; the last time he looked like this, David remembers, was when he told his fellow technicians about Brian and their daughter, Jenny, and said that he understood if they didn’t want to associate with him anymore because of his orientation. 

David thinks about when he first met Brian, a middle school teacher from Minnesota who insists that horn-rimmed glasses are ‘classic,’ and how the man, nervous about meeting Bobby’s friends, accidentally dumped pasta into Greg’s lap during that first meeting and endeared himself to David forever (Greg stripping off his shirt had been a _great_ way to start the night). He thinks about Jenny, who has Bobby’s eyes and wants to be an acrobat when she grows up; Bobby is trying to convince her to be a doctor, Brian a teacher like him, and David has been working hard to persuade her that if she really wants to join a circus, she has to go in for the job of the lion-tamer. 

Then he thinks about his own empty apartment, and the weekly ritual of a phone call to his mother in her retirement home in Los Angeles that usually ends in her shouting that Lucifer owns his soul and him hanging up in disgust. He thinks about how he hasn’t spoken to his brother in three years and the fact that he suspects Matthew (a good Christian boy) is married now but he’s not sure because he wasn’t invited to the wedding. He thinks about his last boyfriend, Andrew, who hadn’t so much broken up with him as changed the locks on the doors and left a note telling him he needed to get rid of the chip on his shoulder if he ever wanted to be even remotely lovable, and how utterly disheartening his unrequited love for a certain CSI Level One was. 

He thinks about Bobby, and Jenny, and Brian, and the other technicians who are probably having panic attacks right this instant, and before Bobby can open his mouth and demand that David be released, the trace tech interjects smoothly, "Well, let’s look at this situation logically." 

Both Bobby and Rogers blink, and after a moment, the latter repeats, "Logically?" 

David pauses for a moment, if only to consider the fact that maybe the LAPD have been right about his lack of survival instincts, and then begins. "If this goes badly, you’ll want the less likable guy to be the hostage that’s been hurt or killed." He points at Bobby. "If you’re on trial for _his_ murder, the jury’s going to hear from everyone in this lab about how he was a wonderful guy, noble and hard-working, and the prosecution will harp on about how you’ve killed a seven-year-old’s father."

"David--" Bobby tries to interrupt, but David continues as if the other man hasn’t spoken, shrugging a little. 

"If I’m dead? The nicest thing anyone here can say about me is that I was a damn good trace technician. The prosecution will have no fatherless daughter to pluck at the jury’s heartstrings to get you the needle. Hell, some people might even thank you--"

Bobby’s voice is loud and anguished at that. "David, for the love of _God_!" but Rogers nods slowly, looking thoughtful, and David knows he’s convinced the man to let Bobby go. Mission accomplished then. Now he just has to hope that he doesn’t end up in a coffin. 

"Go," Rogers says, motioning towards the door, and Bobby gets that set, pale look on his face again. Is he really going to argue? Judging by the way Bobby’s face turns ashen and a muscle jumps in his jaw, he’s about to do exactly that, and David resists the urge to roll his eyes. And people say _David’s_ the one without the survival skills. 

And so he cheats and uses the one card that makes Bobby knuckle under every time. "Think of Jenny," David says, and isn’t surprised when Bobby shoots him an anguished look, as though the trace tech has stabbed him in the heart. (In a way, David supposes he has.) He meets Bobby’s eyes and smirks a little. "Besides, I’m like a cockroach. I’ll be fine." 

"David," Bobby begins, the muscle jumping like some nervous tic, and his voice is so hoarse that David thinks Bobby’s fighting to speak past a lump in his throat. Bobby swallows, pauses, and then swallows again, finally getting out, "Just…don’t get hurt." 

"You mean, keep my mouth shut," David clarifies. 

Bobby shoots him a final, unreadable look at that -- he’s probably wishing David had chosen some better ‘last words’ -- and then David watches him leave, some of the tension finally easing in his stomach as the firearm technician disappears from view. 

As soon as the door shuts, David arches an eyebrow and glances at his captor, who now has the gun aimed directly at his chest. Silence has always made David’s skin crawl -- there is just something so unnerving about the cessation of sound, when all you can hear is the voice in your own head (it’s especially unnerving when the voice has just recently cataloged all the reasons why your friend should live and you should stay in a life-threatening situation and possibly die). After a moment, he cannot stand the voice in the head that is now trying to figure out his odds of surviving, and speaks up. 

"So, what were your demands to the negotiator?" he asks, careful to keep his tone polite. Rogers had seemed to want to talk earlier, so maybe he’s still in the mood.

His captor frowns. "A car and that they won’t charge me for any and all crimes I may have committed in Vegas." Yep, he’s definitely seen too many movies. Does he _really_ think he won’t get charged for holding two people captive? "They’re working on it right now." 

David just looks at the other man, resisting the urge to tell him that if they wouldn’t pay the ransom for Golden Boy Nick Stokes, they sure as hell aren’t going to give into his demands for _Hodges_. Instead, he says, "What kind of car?" but before Rogers can answer, David’s cell begins to ring -- well, more specifically, to play Pachelbel Canon. 

After a nod from the captor, David answers it with a curt, "Hodges." Maybe he should be more polite to the negotiator -- he had gotten Bobby out, after all -- but polite just isn’t David’s style. 

"Having an interesting night?" Brass asks, and David resists the urge to smirk. 

"Very," he drawls. "_You’re_ the negotiator?" 

He can almost hear Brass raising an eyebrow. "You’ve got a problem with that?" 

"Well, if I recall, the last time you were a negotiator, you got shot," David reminds him, and his tone is drier than a desert. "Let’s just say I don’t place much faith in your skills." 

"If it makes you feel any better, the hostage was fine," Brass deadpans, and now David does smirk. 

"True, but you’re outside--"

"Ask him about the charges they’re going to drop." Rogers sounds suddenly testy, and David suspects that he’s probably not amused that his hostage isn’t cowering in fear and is in fact smirking. 

"Rogers wants to know about the charges," he reports, and is rewarded by an exasperated snort from Brass. 

"The idiot actually thinks we won’t charge him. Great. Just, uh, tell him we’re still working on that. Got to talk to the judge. Oh, and that we’ve got his car. Nondescript tan Toyota Corolla." 

David relays the message, and watches in surprise as Rogers’ face darkens rather than lights up at the news, and before he can say anything more to Brass, Rogers snatches the phone from him and demands, "What the hell is the deal? Get the goddamn judge so I can go!" Whatever Brass says doesn’t placate him, and he begins to pace, resuming the waving of the gun every so often towards David. "No, I don’t want to talk about this until after I’ve released him. I want to talk about this _now_." 

He just watches the man for a moment before he stops paying attention and leans against the wall next to the door. If need be, he’s certain Brass will fake the charges being dropped (though that opens a can of worms for the trial), and then they’ll arrest Rogers as soon as David is out of harm’s way. Bobby will be pissed at him for using Jenny on him, and then he’ll get over it, and then life will get back to normal. Hopefully. If Bobby tries to spread the word that David was being _heroic_, he might never hear the end of it. God, if Bobby gives him the reputation of being _nice_\--

"I want the fucking charges dropped!" 

David looks up at the furious tone Rogers has taken -- he sounds as angry as he did right before he stole the gun and took David and Bobby hostage -- and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

Rogers’ voice rises. "I’m goddamn serious. Get the fucking charges dropped, or I’ll shoot him." 

Okay, David is not amused, especially not when Rogers stops pacing and aims the gun at the middle of his chest. Shouldn’t Brass be placating this idiot by now? "If you shoot me, you’ll lose any chance at going free," he says, more sharply than he intends, and inwardly winces. Probably _shouldn’t_ snap at the captor. 

Rogers glares at him, and there is a nasty gleam in his eyes that David doesn’t like one bit. "I can shoot you and keep you alive," he says coldly, and takes a step closer to the trace technician. "You’ll just wish you were dead." 

"Hey, Brass? Drop the goddamn charges," David mutters, instinctively pressing against the wall and eyeing the other man warily. 

The man’s grip flexes on the gun, and Rogers snarls into the cell, "I’m giving you ten minutes to get your act together and drop the charges, or I’ll shoot him." And then the cell is tossed at David, and he is tempted to raise it to his ear and tell Brass that the man looks serious, but instead he shoves it into his pocket and just watches his captor. Rogers looks testy, which is probably not a good thing, and the gleam that clenches David’s gut is still in his eyes. 

David cannot keep from wondering how Rogers’ girlfriend died, and if it was slow and painful. All he knows about the woman is that her name was Kim and that she apparently had _bad_ taste in men. He wonders how old she was when she was killed, how she met a man like Rogers, and how and why Rogers murdered her. 

He glances at the clock on the wall. It’s been about three minutes. Hopefully Brass is figuring out how to fake the dropping of charges and a way to get him away from this psycho. He tries not to let the silence bother him, because the glint is still in Rogers’ eye and he doesn’t know if another question will be taken the wrong way, and so instead he studies the clock. It’s a fairly ordinary clock, though the hour hand is slightly bent, as though someone has vented his or her anger against it at one point or another--

"What’s taking so long?" Rogers suddenly snarls, and David studies the minute hand -- about five minutes have passed -- before he turns to look at the man. "All he needs is some okay from the judge, a stupid phone call, and then I can leave!" 

"Sometimes judges don’t pick up their phones, especially when it’s two in the morning," David says, and damn it, he didn’t mean to be sardonic. He doesn’t cower under the man’s dark look, but amends, "But I’m sure Brass will get the judge up and agreeing to drop the charges." He glances up at the clock and adds, "He’s still got five minutes." 

"Give me your phone," snaps Rogers, and David obeys, blinking as Rogers begins to press a few buttons, and then raises the cell to his ear and snaps, "Is this the negotiator I’ve been talking to? Listen up! Do you think I won’t shoot him? I will, I swear to God, because you should have gotten the charges dropped by now." 

David eyes the gun that is still pointed unwaveringly at his chest, and says, trying to be reasonable, "You promised Brass ten minutes. If he was stalling before, he won’t be stalling now. Just give him the five more minutes he has left, and everything will be fine." 

Rogers continues as though David hasn’t spoken. "I don’t want to talk to you about the charges once I’ve released him! I’m not fucking _stupid._ I know you’re gonna arrest me as soon as he’s safe. Now, it’s real simple. You tell me I get off scot-free for all crimes I have committed and have been accused of in Las Vegas, and I let this guy go, get in my car, and leave." He takes another step towards David, and growls, "Just say that I will not be prosecuted for any crimes in Las Vegas. It’s that simple." Listening for a moment, the redhead rolls his eyes and then David forgets how to breathe as Rogers takes another step towards him and then suddenly the gun barrel presses into his temple once more. "Hell no, you’re not coming in here! Don’t make me blast his brains out." 

David winces as the barrel bites into his temple, and he knows there’s going to be a nasty bruise the next day. He licks his lips, and then mutters, "Can I talk to him?" 

Rogers sneers. "So you can give some sort of signal and bring SWAT in to kill me? I don’t think so." The gun digs deeper into David’s skin, and the redhead adds into the phone, "I’ve got the gun to his head." 

The numbness David felt earlier is returning now. He can feel the gun biting into his skin and pictures how the bruise will look tomorrow from autopsies he’s seen, and wonders what David Phillips and Doc Robbins will think if they have to study that bruise on his corpse, but there is no real fear clenching his gut at the thought of his body laid out before the two coroners. He simply wonders if Matthew and his mother would actually show up to the funeral. 

He notes the vein throbbing in the other man’s forehead, the dark gleam in his eyes, and the way Rogers’ teeth are slightly bared, like the redhead’s some animal backed into a corner, and says quietly, "Let me have the phone, Rogers. No tricks." 

The gun presses harder into his temple, pushing his head back against the wall, and the heated, "No," is accompanied by an ugly sneer. 

His own words come out garbled and muted, as though David is underwater, and his mouth seems to have a mind of its own -- a sarcastic mind, because he hears himself drawl, "If I say pretty please, may I talk to him?" And when the ugly sneer darkens, David adds, "Look, there’s no Hostage Situation 101, no trick word that’ll bring the SWAT team in. They’re not going to do anything that will put me in even more harm’s way." 

Rogers smirks then, and when he speaks, his tone is contemptuous. "I thought you were the less likeable guy. The guy who no one really _cares_ about." 

He feels himself shrug, and the half-smile that contorts his face feels odd and stiff. "I am, but that doesn’t mean they want me dead. Looks bad for the crime lab and all that jazz, you know. Plus, I _am_ one of the best trace technicians out there. I’d be a bitch to replace." 

The other man keeps smirking, even as he says into the cell, "I want the car outside this garage," and then hangs up before Brass can say anything. Then Rogers continues, his voice turning low and smooth, like they are having a chat between friends. "You said some people might even thank me for killing you. Maybe I should just put you out of your misery, do you and the world a favor." This is said reasonably, as though Rogers really will be acting as a philanthropist if he puts a bullet through David’s head.

And David’s mouth opens on his own, and says coldly, "Is that what you told Kim before you killed her? That you were doing the world a favor?" and as he watches the other man’s face flush and contort into a look of utter hatred, the thought crosses his mind that Bobby’s never going to forgive him for getting himself killed. 

But instead of pulling the trigger, the man raises the gun and hits him hard across the face. There is a sudden explosion of light in his vision, his cheekbone throbs, and the blow sends a flare of agony through his skull that makes his knees buckle; David stumbles sideways, grabbing for one of the chairs that Bobby used for the barricade. Instead, the chair tips, and he falls into the barricade with a grunt. For a moment he just stays there, listening to the sound of his own breathing, which is unsteady and ragged. The entire side of his face aches, and it is suddenly hard to see with his right eye as he finally straightens, taking a step away from Rogers. 

Putting the barricade between him and the other man, he closes the eye that has teared up, using his good one instead to watch Rogers glower at him. "They won’t drop the charges," David says, and his voice is unnaturally calm. "You kill me, that’s 25 to life, on top of charges of kidnapping. You should just put your gun down and turn yourself over to the police." 

Rogers’ fierce look seems to swallow up the rest of his face, and there is a hint of desperation in that look now. His eyes are narrowed to slits as he snarls, "I’m not going to prison, I’m not turning myself over, and I’m not--" Pachelbel Canon begins playing once more, and they both look at the phone clenched in the redhead’s grip for a moment; then Rogers gives an odd little noise that sounds like resignation, drops the cell (David hears it hit the floor with a clatter), points the gun almost lazily, and fires. 

He feels the impact like a sledgehammer, and watches the world spin around him as it lurches and David tumbles his way down to the floor, hitting it with a dull thud. He is barely aware of the second gunshot, more interested in the ringing in his ears, and the way it feels like someone is shoving a red-hot poker into his shoulder (should he thank God that Rogers is a bad shot?) and how the bones in the right side of his face feel splintered, like a million tiny needles under his skin. 

There is noise, like shouting voices and loud footfalls, but David doesn’t lift his head to see what is going on. Instead he closes his eyes, welcoming the darkness that makes his face and shoulder stop hurting and everything fade away. 

 

* * *

 

The first thing he hears is Bobby’s furious voice. 

"You son of a bitch! Of all the times to decide to be self-sacrificin’! Do you have any clue how I’d have felt if you’d died?" Bobby snaps, and David forces himself to open his eyes. A slightly blurry Bobby is leaning over him (and scowling). 

David manages a slight smile at the growl in Bobby’s voice, drawling, "There’s that Southern charm," but he isn’t sure if the words come out right, because his mouth feels stuffed with cotton, and everything seems hazy around the edges, and there is no pain at all, which seems to be wrong somehow, though David can’t figure out why. He tries to think back as to why there ought to be pain, and mumbles, "Still offering those five minutes with Thompson." 

There is a pause, and in an entirely different tone, Bobby says, "How much morphine did you guys give him?" 

"Enough to make the edges fuzzy," David informs him, and then watches with interest as the planes of Bobby’s face seem to melt together and become a single indistinct blur. This probably should alarm him, but instead he feels himself grinning, and remarks, "Um, enough to make the edges go away. Interestin’." And then he closes his eyes, just to see if the darkness behind his eyelids will be blurry too. 

 

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes again, everything is white. For a moment, David is thrown back thirty years, when his father had demanded a white Christmas and driven them to the Rockies, and he and Matt had rushed out at six in the morning on Christmas Day to make snowmen, and only after they had made an entire family of snowpeople had they remembered their actual presents inside the cabin. Then he realizes it isn’t cold, and his father’s been dead for twenty years. 

He blinks at the whiteness, and wonders where the colors have gone. Is this some kind of special blindness where all the colors leech from your vision? He closes his eyes and then reopens them -- still white. 

"David?" 

"Where’d the colors go?" he mumbles in response, and then blinks as a face suddenly appears in his line of sight. Ah, there’s some color. 

Greg’s brown eyes are large and almost luminous in his face, and he is wearing an anxiety-ridden expression that doesn’t suit him. "David, you’re in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?" 

"Apparently, someone stole the colors of this room," David mutters. "Wait, hospital rooms are white." For some reason, that strikes him as funny, and he grins up at Greg, wanting to share his mirth. 

"I’ll…take that as a no," Greg mutters, still frowning. "There was a hostage situation, and you were shot. You’re going to be okay -- you’re on a morphine drip right now, which is probably why you’re…uh, not making any sense." 

David blinks, most of the CSI’s words going in one ear and out the other. He definitely hears ‘hostage situation’ though, and vaguely remembers Bobby looking as anxious as Greg does now. "Bobby?" he mutters, some of his mirth fading. 

Greg manages a smile at that, though it’s a pathetic mimicry of his usual grin. "Bobby’s fine, remember? The guy released him." 

“Right,” he mumbles, both because Greg seems to expect an answer and because David feels a memory stir at the younger man’s words -- 

_“If I’m dead? The nicest thing anyone here can say about me is that I was a damn good trace technician. The prosecution will have no fatherless daughter to pluck at the jury’s heartstrings to get you the needle. Hell, some people might even thank you--” _

_“David, for the love of God!” _

Then Greg’s voice draws him away from the memory and a vague sensation of dread. His expression is back to being anxious. “Look, um, I can get a nurse. Do you need anything?” 

The worry on Greg’s face is making David feel like something really _is_ wrong, and he feels his lips twist into a slight frown. “You need to stop looking serious,” he informs the younger man. “If you frown for too long, your face will get stuck like that.” When Greg’s expression doesn’t change, he sighs. “Too late.” Then he realizes Greg asked him a question, and mutters, “Just need…um…. Nothing.” 

He tries to smile at Greg, but is a bit annoyed when it comes out lopsided -- the right side of his face feels off, like it’s frozen in place; when he struggles to raise his hand to touch his cheek, both hands refuse to move and stay like dead weights at his sides. “Just need….” David just needs to close his eyes, really, the whiteness is beginning to make a dull ache spread from the pit of his stomach and onward, and so he lets his eyelids flutter close. He’ll tell Greg he needs him to smile in just a moment…. 

 

* * *

 

When David opens his eyes again, it’s to a myriad of colors -- blues, oranges, purples, yellows -- and it takes him a second to realize he’s surrounded by flowers. For a moment, he’s utterly bewildered, and then memories begin to flood his mind. He grimaces. Obviously, he survived, and _obviously_ Bobby told everyone how David had ‘sacrificed himself.’ Wonderful. 

His shoulder throbs in a vague, the-morphine-is-wearing-off sort of way, and the entire right side of his face aches. When he uses his right eye, it’s slightly blurry, and he suspects he has a black eye. He doesn’t try to sit up, because that would probably increase the pain in his shoulder, and instead lifts his head, shooting a dirty look at the assortment of flowers surrounding his bed. 

“Mr. Hodges?” 

David just looks at the red-cheeked nurse who is smiling warmly at him, and already wants out of this hospital. She’s one of those vile women who smiles brightly and uses a cheery voice at all times, whether she’s telling you you’re being released or that you’re dying. 

“Good morning, Mr. Hodges. Good to see you awake,” she says in the same bright, cheerful voice, and reaches out to plump his pillow. “How are you feeling?” 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes (though only because he’s not sure how to roll just one and he thinks trying to roll his right would cause intense pain). “The morphine’s wearing off, and I want you to give these flowers to someone who’s dying.” 

Her smile doesn’t flicker at all and she even dares to laugh. “I’m afraid we’re going to be decreasing your morphine, and I think your friends might be a little hurt if we get rid of the flowers they brought.” 

“My _friends_?” he repeats. “My friends are apparently sadists if they got me those flowers. For God’s sake, some of the flowers are _purple_. I disown my friends.” 

There’s a laugh at that, but not the tinkling, makes-David-want-to-stab-himself laugh of the nurse, but the warm, infectious laugh of one Greg Sanders. When David looks up, Greg is lounging in the doorway, wearing day clothes, an amused grin, and shadows under his eyes. 

As David raises an eyebrow, Greg grins and raises a placating hand. “Before you say a word, I didn’t get you the flowers. That was all, uh, Catherine and Jacqui’s idea. Although Jacqui did cackle when Catherine grabbed those violets….” He walks in, shooting the nurse an easy smile. 

And finally, finally the nurse’s smile dims a little, and she looks momentarily uncertain. “It’s not visiting hours,” she informs Greg, and his easy smile turns into a kicked-puppy look that would do a five-year-old proud. At that, she sighs and succumbs to the wiles that make up Greg Sanders (not that David faults her -- no one can resist Greg’s patented kicked-puppy look). “I’ll give you a few minutes. Just don’t tell anyone.” 

Greg turns a thousand megawatt smile upon her at that, and if she wasn’t a middle-aged woman, David might have felt a jolt of jealousy. “Thanks!” As soon as the nurse closes the door behind her, he turns that grin upon David. “You know, there’s a running bet on how long it’ll take you to make that nurse cry.” 

David smirks at that. “And now I have a challenge to occupy my dreary hours in this prison.” He pretends to consider the challenge for a moment. “She looks like a hard one to break. I hope you didn’t bet too early.” 

Greg just smiles and doesn’t answer, instead holding up a thermos and saying, “You’ll need an energy boost then.” 

He eyes the thermos like Greg is holding a rattlesnake in his hand. What’s Greg brought him? Poison? Then again, after a few hours of that bright-eyed nurse, David will probably be willing to drink a gallon of poison. “Energy boost?” 

The CSI laughs, and the infectious quality of the sound tugs David’s lips into more of a smile than a smirk, much to his dismay. The morphine seems to have increased his susceptibility to the charms of Greg Sanders. “You didn’t think I’d let you suffer through hospital coffee, would you?” 

David struggles to sit up at that, wincing a little at the effort, and says, incredulous, “You brought me Blue Hawaiian?” That’s…breaking from the coffee game. (The game went like this: first, Greg would buy the coffee, then he’d hide it somewhere in the break room, then David would find it and drink it, and finally Greg would complain -- loudly -- and buy some more Blue Hawaiian. Greg’s breaking from routine.) Then again, David supposes him getting shot has already shattered the routine into a million pieces. 

Greg rolls his eyes. “Hospital coffee is worse than Sara’s sludge,” he says, as though this is as obvious as the sky being blue. “As if I’d make you suffer like that.” There’s a beat, and he grins. “Hey, I’ll have you know that I wouldn’t wish hospital coffee on my worst enemy.” He sets the thermos down on the table, shoving aside a bouquet to do so. 

David studies the smudges under Greg’s eyes that are almost like bruises, and cannot help but remark, “You look like you need the coffee more than I do.” 

The CSI shoots him a startled look that shifts to a sheepish expression, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Oh, I, ah, didn’t get much sleep.” 

He puzzles over that for a moment. Well, the hostage situation had probably caused a truckload of backlog for the lab to get through, and Greg had probably gotten stuck with an extra shift (and hadn’t he already been on double?) and needed catch up on his sleep. 

“Then go and sleep,” David says, and blinks when Greg shakes his head. He raises an eyebrow again. “What, are you boycotting sleep now?” 

“No, I--” Greg stops, and as David watches, sighs and sits down on the bed, shooting the trace technician an unreadable expression (David runs through the expressions he’s catalogued from time spent watching the CSI and cannot label the look as any one he’s seen on Greg’s face before). “David, it’s just….” Greg rubs at his face for a moment, and then looks at David and says, “Bobby told us what you said to the guy.” 

“What I said?” David echoes, and feels something akin to uneasiness as Greg’s expression shifts to one he knows -- exasperation. 

Greg remains sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, but the words come out fast and heated. “The nicest thing anyone can say is that you’re a damn good trace technician? If he killed you some people might _thank_ him? Jesus, David, do you honestly think people would be happy if you died?” 

David shoots an almost wistful look at the IV going into his hand -- couldn’t they _not_ wean him off the morphine? -- and frowns. “I was just trying to convince Rogers to let Bobby go. I mean, Bobby has Brian and Jenny, and--” 

“And his friends, and so do you!” Greg is still looking angry, but there’s a hint of the kicked-puppy in there too, which David can’t quite figure out. How is getting Bobby out of a dangerous situation something worthy of the kicked-puppy look? Greg sighs. “I know you were trying to keep Bobby safe, but his life isn’t worth more or less than yours.” 

David should probably say something to assure Greg that of course his life isn’t worth less than Bobby’s, of course he thinks his life is worth living for, but he remembers the voice in his head that had weighed his empty life against Bobby’s overflowing one, and stays silent. 

And Greg unfortunately picks up on the meaning behind David’s silence, because he looks absolutely furious now, and leans in, close enough that David can feel Greg’s breath on his face (and if this was a morphine-induced dream Greg would be kissing him right now, but since it isn’t, Greg just continues looking pissed). 

“We’d be devastated if you died, David. You might not believe it, but you should, because you have people who _care_ about you. Bobby, and Jacqui, and all the lab techs, and you might not believe this, but the CSIs do too.” 

David knows he shouldn’t laugh, that it will only anger Greg more, but the incredulous chuckle escapes his lips nonetheless. “Oh, they like me enough to call me Hodges while they call everyone else by their first names. I can feel the love.” Greg opens his mouth to argue, but David presses on, tone reasonable. “Right now they’re just fixated on how I was all self-sacrificing and put Bobby’s life before my own. Give it a couple weeks and I’ll be plain old Hodges again.” 

“David,” says Greg, and the CSI looks exhausted now, and somehow the shadows under his eyes have deepened. “They care. You might not believe it, but they do.” 

He resists the urge to sigh, but gives up the fight. Maybe if he agrees, Greg will stop looking like he’s aged ten years in five minutes. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “I just…I thought of Brian and Jenny, Greg. I didn’t want to have to see their faces at the funeral if anything happened to him.” It was partly the truth. He just wouldn’t mention thinking of his empty apartment and his dysfunctional relationship with his family, and the fact that he was trapped in an unrequited relationship. (He _definitely_ wouldn’t mention that last part.) 

Greg is still looking exhausted though, and he scrambles to say something, anything, that will strip those ten years off the other man’s face. “Look, I’m fine, Bobby’s fine, everything’s fine. I gained the learning experience that bullets hurt and morphine is stuff of the gods, and now we can all move on.” When Greg just looks at him, he reiterates, “I’m _fine_.” 

“Yeah, I know.” And Greg is still leaning in close. At least his expression is no longer angry or upset; now he just looks earnest. “We’d miss you, David.” He swallows, and David tries not to stare too obviously at the other man’s Adam’s apple, and then tries not to stare in general as Greg says quietly, “I’d miss you.” 

David blinks, and then stifles the morphine-induced hope that reads too much into those words. After a moment, he manages a smirk, and resettles himself against the pillow (his shoulder is beginning to really ache, but he ignores that for the moment -- he’ll bitch at the nurse to give him some more morphine once Greg leaves). “Well, you haven’t gotten the full David Hodges experience. I’ll admit, you would’ve missed out.” 

Greg smiles, and some of the tension eases from his face and a few years fall away. “So, the full David Hodges experience. I take it that it can’t be done in a hospital?” 

He snorts, and tries not to think about what he’d like the full David Hodges experience to _be_ for the other man. After all, the morphine’s wearing off, which means he should no longer be unprotected against Greg’s charms. “Definitely not.” He is quiet for a moment, trying not to be obvious about studying Greg, but he is silently studying the contours of the other man’s face, and how the years are gradually easing away as he watches. After a pause, he says, more gently than he intends, “You should go, get some sleep.” 

Greg grins at that. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to get rid of me, Hodges.” His surname is said playfully, and David cannot help but smirk. 

“I’m just sending you away before you can regret giving me your Blue Hawaiian and take it back.” 

For a moment, Greg looks almost confused, as though he’s forgotten he broke the routine and brought David coffee, and then he grins. “Oh yeah, let me pour you some.” 

A minute later, David struggles to sit upright so he can accept the mug of Blue Hawaiian that Greg has poured him. “You know, I’m probably not supposed to drink coffee,” he remarks, and then proceeds to drain the mug, being careful not to burn his mouth, as Greg laughs. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the unique flavor that is Blue Hawaiian, because he suspects that the nurse will commandeer the rest of it, and so is caught totally unawares by Greg’s soft, “Think I could get the full David Hodges experience at your apartment?” 

David opens his eyes and stares at that, and does his damnedest not to read anything into Greg’s words or the odd flush that is tinting the younger man’s face, because Greg cannot possibly suspect what the _full_ David Hodges experience entails. “I--” He can’t help it; he flounders, at a loss for words. “I suppose so.” 

Greg’s face is still red, but he’s wearing his familiar smile and his face has returned to its normal youthful nature, and he’s leaned in close again, so that his breath (scented cinnamon, the trace tech notes) lightly caresses David’s face. David suddenly doesn’t know what to do with the mug that’s in his good hand, or how to smile or breathe. Yeah, remembering how to breathe was definitely one of the first things to go. 

He waits for Greg to say something, anything, but instead Greg just grins, leans in closer, and presses his mouth against David’s. The soft kiss tastes of cinnamon and ever-present Blue Hawaiian, and David knows he’ll never be able to look at coffee the same way again. 

When they pause to breathe, David cannot help but smirk and go, “If I’d known getting shot would get a reaction like _that_, I would have misfired one of Bobby’s guns ages ago.”

Greg rolls his eyes and grins. “Just for future reference, I don’t date guys who inflict bodily harm on themselves.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” David says, and then ignores the fact that the right side of his face is throbbing, as is his shoulder, ignores the fact that the nurse is probably going to come in at any second, and drops the mug off the side of the bed, tangles his fingers in Greg’s hair, and pulls him into a deeper kiss. 

When someone finally clears his throat in the doorway, David sinks back against the pillow and Greg resettles himself on the edge of the bed, and he’s pretty sure they’re both flushed (both from blushing and arousal). 

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m just ahead of the pack that’s about to swarm your room,” Bobby says, looking both amused and pleased, and when he adds, “I’m really, _really_ sorry for interruptin’,” David hears the unsaid _It’s about damn time, you idiots._ 

David heaves a sigh. “Why did you give me a reputation for being _nice_?” he laments, even as the loud, boisterous voices of the approaching CSIs and lab rats reach his ears. He shoots a glance at Greg, who is flushed and grinning from ear to ear, and cannot help but grin himself even as he continues to lament. “Now I’ll have to rebuild my entire reputation. Do you know _hard_ that’s going to be?” Especially when he plans on spending his free time showing Greg the full David Hodges experience again…and again…and again.

Bobby just smiles. “You can start rebuilding by having those five minutes with Thompson,” he suggests, and David laughs even as a flood of people begins to engulf his hospital room.

 


End file.
